'Yes, we can talk again. But I fear to little purpose. Our viewpoints differ too extensively.
'There must be certain facets of your work that can be safely told. Perhaps not the whole story….
'I have in mind, Miss Roberts, an alternative suggestion.
'An alternative, Eminence?
'Yes, how would you like to work for us? We can offer you a most attractive position.
'A position? I'm not looking for a position.
'Please, said the cardinal. 'Before you refuse me, allow me to explain. For many years, we have talked of the advisability of writing a formal, authoritative history of Vatican 17, for our own use only. Over the centuries, we have stored the data that would go into such a history — all the happenings, even from the day we first arrived upon this planet, an account of all our work, the hopes, the successes and the failures. It is all there and waiting for retrieval, but somehow we have never gotten around to it. We've had so much to do and, truth to tell, we never have had anyone competent to do it. But now….
'But now you think that I might write it for you — a thousand years of history. In some detail, I would suppose. How many thousand pages of manuscript? How long would you think that it might take? A lifetime, or two? And you'd pay me well for it?
'Well, yes, naturally we'd pay you handsomely for it, said the cardinal. 'More than you'd make, far more than you'd make, flitting around the galaxy in search of disjointed subjects for your writing. And more than that. Optimum working conditions. All the assistance you might wish. Pleasant surroundings in which to live and work. No pressure for completion.
'That's good of you, she said.
'At least, he said, 'you'll accept our hospitality for the moment. Someone can show you the suites available. You can take your pick. No need to go back to Human House. We can pick up your luggage and bring it here.
'I'll have to think on it, Your Eminence.
'Then think on it here. You'll find our suite far more comfortable….
Good Lord, she thought. All the data here, squirreled away in memory cores, waiting for retrieval!
'You do not answer, said the cardinal.
'Your offer is most kind, she said. 'I think I shall accept the hospitality that you offer, since that seems to be your wish. On the other matter, I need some further thought.
'Take all the time you wish, said the cardinal. 'We shall not press for an early answer. We'll talk about it later. But let me say we do need your services very badly. The history should be written. But it takes a certain kind of talent to do the writing of it — perhaps a human talent, which we have been unable to acquire. Here on End of Nothing it is difficult to obtain the kind of human talent that we need. The planet is too far and lonely to attract humanity. Go out at night and look up and there are few stars. The galaxy itself is a shimmer in the sky and that is all. But there are certain advantages. There is space, there is newness. A freshness that is not found on many planets. And the mountains. To our humans, the mountains are a constant source of great delight.
'I am sure they are, said Jill.
Thirteen
'This, Ecuyer told Tennyson, 'is our repository. Here, stored and filed and cross-indexed and ready, close at hand, are the records of the work we've done in the Search Program.
The room was large. There were no windows. Pale ceiling lights marched in converging rows into the distance. Ranks of filing cabinets, floor to ceiling, stretched away farther than one could see.
Ecuyer walked slowly down one row of the cabinets, his hand laid flat against their fronts, sliding along the metal. Tennyson trailed along behind him, lost in this cavern of files. He felt the place closing in on him, pressing close, looming over him with a threat of suffocation.
Ahead of him, Ecuyer halted and pulled out a drawer, fumbling, or pretending to fumble, among the many small crystal cubes that lay within the drawer.
'Ah, here, he said, coming up with one of them. 'A cube picked quite at random.
He held it up for Tennyson to see, a gleaming crystal cube four inches on a side. It was, thought Tennyson, quite unspectacular. Ecuyer closed the drawer. 'And now, he said. 'if you are willing, I should like to show you.
'Show me?
'Yes, let you experience what is imprinted on the cube — live the experience picked up by the sensitive, the experience that he lived through. What he saw and felt and thought. Put you inside the sensitive…
He peered intently at Tennyson. 'It will not hurt, he said. 'You will not be uncomfortable. There'll be no pain, no fright.
'You mean that you want me — that you can connect me somehow to that cube?
Ecuyer nodded. 'Simply done, he said.
'But why? asked Tennyson. 'Why should you want to do this?
'Because I could talk about our work for the next three days, said Ecuyer, 'and not be able to give you an understanding of it such as you can gain from a few minutes on this cube.
'I can see that, said Tennyson. 'But why me, a stranger?
'A stranger, perhaps, said Ecuyer, 'but I want you very much to stay here and be a member of the team. We need you, Jason. Can't you understand that?
'As a matter of fact, I have already decided to stay on, said Tennyson. 'I sat on a bench in a beautiful garden this morning and found that I already had made my decision without being aware I had.
'Well, now, that's fine, said Ecuyer. 'That's splendid. But why did you wait? Why didn't you tell me immediately?
'Because you still were sneaking up on me, said Tennyson. 'You do it so well that it was fun to watch.
'I'm properly rebuked, said Ecuyer, 'and I don't seem to mind at all. I can't tell you how happy it makes me. And, now, how about the cube?
'I'm a bit nervous about it, but if you think I should, I will.
'I think you should, Ecuyer told him. 'It's important to me and I think to you that you know exactly what we are doing.
'So I'll understand this Heaven business better?
'Well, yes, but not entirely that. I can see you're still a skeptic on what you call the Heaven business.
'Yes, I am. Aren't you?
'I don't know, said Ecuyer. 'I can't be sure. Every fiber in me cries out against it and yet…
'All right, said Tennyson. 'Let's get on with the cube.
'Okay, said Ecuyer. 'This way.
He led the way out of the stack and into a small room crowded with equipment.
'Sit down in that chair over there, said Ecuyer. 'Take it easy. Relax.
A helmet arrangement was suspended over the chair. Tennyson regarded it with some suspicion.
'Go on, sit down, said Ecuyer. 'I'll fit the helmet on you and drop the cube into the slot and-
'All right, said Tennyson. 'I suppose I'll have to trust you. 'You can trust me, Ecuyer said. 'It won't hurt at all. Tennyson lowered himself cautiously into the chair, squirmed around to get comfortable. Ecuyer carefully lowered the helmet on his head, fussing to get it adjusted.
'You all right? he asked.
'All right. I can't see a thing.
'You don't need to see. Breathing all right? No trouble breathing?
'None at all.
'All right, then. Here we go.
For a moment there was utter darkness, then there was light, a greenish sort of light, and a wetness. Tennyson gasped and then the gasp cut off, for everything was all right, better than all right.
The water was warm and the mud was soft. His gut was full. For the moment there was no danger. Contentment filled him and he allowed himself to sink deeper into the yielding mud. When the mud no longer yielded, he agitated his legs, trying to sink deeper, but this gained him little, although when he ceased the effort, he could sense the mud beginning to flow over him and it was warm and an added safety factor. He settled as deeply, as compactly as he could, the contentment deepening, a lassitude spreading through him. With the mud spreading over him, in no matter how thin a layer, he was shielded from view. The likelihood was that no prowling predator would detect him, snap him up. It is good, he thought smugly to himself. There was no need to move, no necessity to invite attack by moving. He had everything he needed. He had eaten until food no longer had attraction for him. He was warm and safe. He could remain motionless, exert no effort.